


daydream

by mnemememory



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 11:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17222834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemememory/pseuds/mnemememory
Summary: "My nightmares are about being happy."(or; molly and yasha talk. pre-stream).





	daydream

...

...

**daydream**

...

...

Molly can’t breathe.

He’s trying, but something is blocking his throat. His mouth is wide open, but the thing filling it isn’t air – it’s too thick, too heavy. It’s a wretchedly familiar sensation. Molly gags under the weight, throat convulsing, but he can’t quite choke it out.

_Not again_ , he thinks, hands scrabbling uselessly at a world of dirt. _No, not again, not –_

He reaches out and gasps at empty space. The suddenness of the change overbalances his frantic efforts, and between one second and the next he’s curled up into a ball and gasping in with starved lungs. He can’t stop shivering.

Something is standing in front of him, taller than he would have ever thought possible. Molly looks up, and up, and up, and he can’t see a face. It’s obscured black and blue, light filtering oddly across its expression. It’s saying something, but Molly can’t make out the words. He squints, but –

It is him.

They’re standing face-to-face, bare inches apart. The not-Molly is grinning, contorting Molly’s face into something wide and sharp and cruel.

“Give it back,” he says.

Molly digs his claws into the crook of his arm, splitting open sore skin. There are lacerations covering every inch of his body. He drips with blood.

“Give it back,” not-Molly says again.

There is a hollowness to Molly’s chest, digging deep down into his gut and spreading out to the rest of his body. He is so hungry. He is _starving_. He clutches at his elbows, and they’re slick and sticky.

“No,” he says.

“Give it back,” not-Molly says. He reaches out with both hands to grab Molly’s throat, digging his claws in tight. Molly can’t breathe. The claws puncture into the skin of his neck, and Molly gurgles uselessly as liquid begins to fill up the back of his throat. _Molly can’t breathe._

There are people standing around the two of them, so many people. Faceless. They’re saying something, but Molly can’t hear them. Molly can’t hear _anything_ past the blood rushing through his ears. His tail lashes back and forth, but it doesn’t connect to anything.

Molly knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that they are calling out to not-Molly. To a dead name. _Come back_ , they are saying. _Come back, come back –_

Dark spots are beginning to blister across Molly’s vision. He fumbles at not-Molly’s wrists, but his claws can’t quite seem to find purchase. He is dying. He is being strangled. He is six feet under, dirt choking his throat and his nostrils and his eyes, and there is an emptiness to him that won’t ever go away. Hollow air whistles in the space between his bones and his skin. Molly swallows in dirt, and he will never be full.

“Give it back,” not-Molly says.

Molly splits his face into a grin. “Fuck _off_ ,” he says, kicking out, and –

…

…

Molly lurches forward and vomits.

“Gross,” he groans into his knees, shaking. He can’t stop shaking. “Just what I needed.”

He stays like this for a long moment, face pressed up into his vomit, unable to gather up the energy to move. Eventually the stink and the texture will get too much, but right now he’s just too exhausted to care. _Don’t go back to sleep_ , he thinks, over and over. _Don’t go back to sleep_.

Somehow, he manages to peel himself out of his ruined bedroll and get unsteadily to his feet. It takes a few tries; his knees keep giving up halfway through. He has to clutch at the tent pole to keep upright, but he gets it in the end.  

His shirt is ruined, though his pants might be okay if he can stand the smell. He can’t. Molly thinks about going for his pack but gives up after a few stumbling steps. He instead focuses on dragging his bedroll out of the tent and towards the river they had set up camp next to just days before.

The water is frigidly cold, though the current isn’t very powerful. Molly submerges himself up to his collarbones, not bothering to fight his way out of his clothing. He bends his knees to go fully under, but he can’t do it. He freezes millimetres from the water. After a few seconds of consideration, he cups his hands and splashes water so that he can wash off his face. The stinging chill is a welcome reprieve from his oncoming headache.

“Are you okay?”

Molly thrashes wildly around towards the voice, unbalancing and tripping backwards into the water. Panic kicks in with a healthy burst of adrenalin, and he claws out with desperate strength for some kind of purchase. His hands break the surface, but then he’s under again, and he can’t, he can’t –

Strong hands grab onto his wrist and drag him up. Molly splutters out a gasp, and – for the second time in barely thirty minutes – chokes out the contents of his stomach.

Yasha glares down at him, sharp face silhouetted by the thin sliver of moon visible through the thick cloud cover. She’s standing waist-deep in the river, sword shucked off onto the bank, free arm resting threateningly on her hip.

“What’s going on?”

Molly tries for a carnival grin, but he’s too threadbare to pull it off properly. Yasha’s glare softens into a subtle look of concern, indistinguishable to those who knew her less well than he.

“Yasha,” he says, voice as upbeat as he can make it. He clutches tight onto her hand. “What brings you out here at this time of evening? It’s late! You should be asleep.”

“I just got off watch,” Yasha says.

Well, it could be worse. It could have been Bo.

Molly sighs and slumps backwards, trusting Yasha’s strength to stop him before he breaks the skin of the water. Exhaustion drags leaden at his limbs.

“What’s going on, Molly?”

It shouldn’t be this hard. Yasha has seen him at his worse – he can’t quite remember those first few weeks after he had clawed his way out of the ground, but he has serious doubts that they were pretty. Yasha had been present for, if not all, then at least a significant proportion of that time. This shouldn’t be so embarrassing.

“My tent was so warm,” Molly says. “I decided to take a bit of a midnight dip to cool off. Doesn’t the water feel lovely?”

Yasha ignores him, dragging them both over to the river bank. She picks him up easily and puts him down next to her sword. Switching her gaze onto his discarded bedroll, she grabs it and pulls it into the river.

“Wait, what are you –”

“Did you have another nightmare?”

Molly’s mouth clicks closed, and he folds his arms sullenly across his chest. Yasha doesn’t look at him, focused on keeping his bedroll from getting dragged into the current and floating away.

He thinks about lying. He is a very good liar.

“Yas,” he says. He leans back against the muddy river bank and stares sightlessly at the sky. He wishes he could see the stars, but there are too many clouds. “Yes, I had another nightmare.”

Yasha gives a low _hmm_.

Molly uses his tail to flick some water at her. She bares it with stoic grace.

“I don’t know what came over me,” he says. He keeps his voice light. _See? I’m fine now_. “I haven’t –”

“Molly.”

Molly lets out a long sigh. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says. “Not right now.”

“Okay.”

The air has a distinct bite to it. Molly wants to close his eyes and relax, but he can’t quite seem to gather up the courage. Mud oozes between his fingers and sticks his clothing tight to his skin. Oh, well. At least he doesn’t smell of sick anymore. Just bog.

The silence stretches out between them, thin as overworked taffy. Molly can see it softening, threatening to break. There isn’t much to distract him besides the steady trickle of water as he rushes forth. The circus is a dead thing behind them, light gutted out by the late-night breeze.

“You have nightmares,” Molly says. Her shoulders stiffen, but Molly forges ahead. “You wake up screaming, sometimes. How do you deal with them?”

“I don’t.”

“That’s not a very useful answer, Yasha,” Molly says with a grimace.

Yasha shrugs. “I think…my nightmares are a little different. Than yours. They come from a different – place.”

Molly sits up straight and crosses his legs. He pulls his tail out of the water and waves it around, his own little version of a shrug.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You don’t remember anything,” Yasha says. Molly’s smile widens. “That’s what your nightmares are about. Not – being in control. Someone else using your hands.”

“Don’t pull your punches,” Molly murmurs.

“My nightmares are about being happy,” Yasha says.

Molly’s claws tighten. “Are you not happy now, Yasha?”

Yasha sighs, the sound pulled out of her. She turns around and hurls the sodden bedroll into the space next to Molly, and then clambers out of the river to join him. They’re both soaked to the bone and have undoubtedly caught some number of unpleasant illnesses. Molly can’t find it in himself to mind overmuch.

“I don’t know what I am,” Yasha says. “But it isn’t what I had.”

Molly leans into her solid warmth and closes his eyes. He is very tired.

“I dream about this body,” he says. It’s easier to talk when he isn’t looking at anything. “About the person who owned it before me. I’m afraid one day he’s going to come back and kill me.”

“I won’t let that happen.”

Molly smiles into her shawl. He isn’t shivering, but he feels like he should be.

“I’m going to wake up one day, and I’m still going to be in the ground. Everything up until now will be a live I’ve just been telling myself”

Yasha pinches his shoulder.

“ _Ow_! What the fuck –”

“Did that feel real?”

“That felt like it _hurt_ ,” Molly says. “You’re stronger than you think you are, _ow_.”

“I am very strong,” Yasha agrees. “But did it feel real?”

“Too real,” Molly says with a scowl, rubbing his shoulder. “Alright, alright, I get your point.”

“If you ever feel like that,” Yasha says solemnly. “Just come into my tent, and I’ll pinch you again.”

“Thanks,” Molly says, dry as ice. A shadow of a smile creeps up onto his face. “You’re a true friend.”

Yasha grunts out something that could be acknowledgement, or could be embarrassment. Molly gets unsteadily to his feet, and then points at his bedroll.

“I’m not carrying that,” Yasha says.

“How long do these things take to dry?”

Yasha purses her lips, looking almost befuddled. “…a while.”

“ _Why don’t you know_?”

“I usually just bribe Yuli into doing my laundry…”

“Have we just ruined it?” Molly says, crouching down to poke at the soggy material. It looks a little worse for wear, slathered with mud and poked through with sticks. “Submerging it in river water probably wasn’t the best idea…”

“I could smell you from halfway across camp,” Yasha says. “It was for the greater good.”

“I’m sleeping with you tonight,” Molly says.

“You’re not my type.”

 “Oh, _now_ you develop a sense of humour –”

…

…

Yasha wakes up screaming.

…

…

 

**Author's Note:**

> sparked from episode 46, which has and continues to kill me. goddamn. *cries forever*


End file.
